


Dirty Talk, Peraltiago-Stylez

by girlyjuice



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, Consent Negotiation, Cunnilingus, Dominance, F/M, Jake's POV, Kink, Never Have I Ever, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3276701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlyjuice/pseuds/girlyjuice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Jake and Amy talk about sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Talk, Peraltiago-Stylez

**i.**

It’s Friday night and the squad is getting drunk at the bar. Same old, same old.

“Never have I ever… punched a perp in the nads,” Rosa says. Jake picks up a shotglass of vodka and downs it in one go.

“Sorry, clarifying question,” Amy says, and hiccups. (She’s had four shots so far, if Jake’s count isn’t off.) “Nads are balls, right?”

“And – sorry, I know I keep asking, but I’m still lost,” Charles adds. “Do we drink if we _have_ done it, or if we haven’t?”

Jake grins at them, too happy (and tipsy) to be annoyed. He loves these after-work get-togethers, even the ones that don’t get as boozy as this one has. “Yes, Santiago, nads are balls,” he says, voice dripping with judgment to mask how cute he thinks it is that she didn’t know this. “And Charles – when it’s your turn, you say something _you’ve_ never done, and everyone who _has_ done that thing has to drink.”

At this, he turns back to Rosa. “Hang on. _You’ve_ never punched a perp in the nads?”

Rosa smirks. “Punched, no. Kicked, yes.” She refills Jake’s glass. “Gina, your turn.”

Gina’s been absorbed in her cellphone for most of the game, though she’s followed along just enough to drink when needed. Now, she lifts her eyes from her game of Kwazy Cupcakes and examines the group. “Never have I ever brought a woman to a sensual climax with my mouth,” she purrs, and then returns to her game.

There’s a bit of an awkward silence, because this seems to have come out of nowhere, but Jake’s used to that. That’s Gina’s way.

Charles and Jake each drain a shotglass, but so does Rosa, which causes the group to fall into a whole different kind of silence.

After downing her vodka and licking the remnants off her lips in a way that seems almost vulgar given the context, Rosa finally notices everyone staring at her. “What?” she says, equal parts scary and sexy, and apparently no one has the stones to question why or how Rosa has gone down on a woman before (possibly more than once?) so that’s the end of that.

“I’m surprised you’ve made a woman come that way, Peralta,” Amy jeers, looking at him with glassy eyes. Jake likes four-drink Amy; she’s bold and shameless and her lips get all pouty and… wow, he’s pretty drunk.

“Why? Why do you doubt my sexual prowess?!” he replies, drumming his fists on his own chest like Tarzan.

Amy hiccups again and giggles. “I dunno. You always struck me as a wham-thank-you-ma’am kind of guy. Get your needs met and get out the door.”

Jake notices that she described his hypothetical lovemaking style only as “wham” and not the full “wham bam,” and chooses to chalk this up to her drunkenness rather than her underestimation of his stamina.

“You can get your needs met by getting someone off,” Rosa says simply.

Jake nods. “True dat. There’s something crazy hot about making a lady feel really good.” If he were sober, he’d stop here. But nope. “Feeling her thighs shake around you. Hearing the sounds she makes.” He leans in just a little closer to Amy, locks his eyes on hers. “The smell and taste of her. Getting to be _right there_ when she totally falls apart.”

He notes that Amy has gotten very pink in the face – pinker, even, than her usual raspberry-sherbet four-drink flush – and is crossing her legs and biting her lip in a way that he might interpret as arousal if this wasn’t, you know, Amy Santiago, uptight straight-laced prude. His eyes linger on her lip, and yeah, he must be kind of wasted because he definitely wishes it was _him_ biting that lip and not her.

“Succulent,” Charles confirms, and sounds of disgust rise from the group en masse. Gina throws an olive at his head.

* * *

**ii.**

Another work day, another petty argument about who’s the better detective.

“Yeah, well, you haven’t even caught one perp so far this month, Peralta, so it’s not like you can talk,” Amy retorts to whatever dumb thing Jake’s just said. Jake really wishes Charles hadn’t pointed out to him that all his teasing and taunting is just stupid pigtail-pulling in disguise; this newfound knowledge makes it super hard to focus long enough to come up with sick burns.

“I’m still the better detective, and I’ll prove it,” Jake says, knowing even as this comes out of his mouth that he’s got nothing. She’s totally right. She’s always right about him. His head’s been elsewhere this month, and he’s, okay, yeah, maybe in a bit of a slump. But he’s still a good detective, and he can still detect.

Amy isn’t even looking at him anymore, obviously so sure that he’s got no comeback. She’s unwrapping the sandwich she brought for lunch, having already laid her napkin and soda out neatly on the break room table. And that’s when Jake’s eyes fall on the quartet of tiny bruises on the inside of her wrist and suddenly something clicks into place in his detective brain.

“You’re a sexual submissive!” he blurts out.

Amy drops her sandwich. “What?”

He knows, immediately, that he’s right. He has that triumphant feeling in his veins that he only gets when he’s absolutely, totally, one-thousand-push-ups certain about a solve – not to mention, Amy is blushing so hard that he almost wishes he didn’t have to embarrass her further. But, alas. A detective has to show his work.

“Exhibit A: you went away with Teddy over the weekend and now you’ve got bruises on your arms,” he says, gently turning her wrist over to get another look. “I know you didn’t get them from a perp because I didn’t notice them before you left last week, and I know whatever happened was consensual because when I asked you if you had a good time with Teddy, you said, ‘Yes, it was _wonderful_!’” He says this last part in a Pollyanna-esque imitation of happy-Amy that he wishes didn’t sound so overtly bitter.

“Exhibit B,” he continues, “last month, when Gina mentioned she wanted to read _Fifty Shades of Grey_ , you not only offered to lend her your copy, you _had it in your desk already_ and gave it to her right away.”

“A lot of women read that book,” Amy argues frantically. “That doesn’t have to mean I’m a – “

Jake rolls his eyes at her obvious fronting and ploughs on. “Exhibit C: you’re always telling me how important it is to keep work stuff at work, and to never take home any cop files or equipment, but I saw a pair of handcuffs in your bedroom at your Christmas party.”

“You snooped in my bedroom?!” Amy whisper-shouts at him.

“Hardly. The cuffs were attached to your bedpost. I couldn’t miss them when I walked by to use the bathroom.”

Her mouth flattens into a grimace. “Dammit.”

Jake leans back in his chair and interlaces his fingers behind his head. “Exhibit D: you act like a crazy excited weirdo around anyone who gives you orders. Especially Holt.”

Amy’s jaw drops. “Jake! Holt is my mentor! You know that isn’t sexual!”

Jake grins, delighted to have made his first solve in weeks and to have discovered a deeper shade of Santiago-blush than he’s ever seen before. “ _Suuuure_ ,” he says, and laughs when Amy storms out of the room. He picks up her sandwich and takes a bite.

* * *

**iii.**

Jake thought he knew Amy pretty well, but somehow he didn’t guess that part of the process of dating her is having a Consent Conversation at the end of the second date.

He should’ve just kept his mouth shut. But no. He had to make a stupid joke. When they made out against her doorframe and she pressed her body on his and it seemed like they were about to get busy, sexual-stylez, he muttered, “I’m surprised you’re not making me sign a consent contract,” and she stopped and looked at him and said, “Well, now that you mention it…”

And now they’re in her living room making a sex checklist.

“Okay, so in the ‘yes’ column, we’ve got: kissing (with and without tongue), breast play, hands and fingers (with proper lubrication), oral, and, um, intercourse (with a condom),” Amy says, moving her pen down the list as she reads it out. She pushes her glasses further up the bridge of her nose and looks at him. “Did you want to add anything?”

Jake literally can’t believe this is happening. If this were any other girl in the universe, he would’ve peaced out ten minutes ago. Too serious. Too weird. Sorry. See ya.

But this is Amy Santiago. So he’s willing to sit with her and make a damn checklist if it means he gets to kiss her again. Let alone all that other stuff she just listed.

“Question,” he says tentatively. “Does ‘breast play’ include mouth stuff, or should I just use these bad boys?” He wiggles his fingers at her.

She smiles. “Either, or both. I’ll write that down.” And she does. “Now, what about the ‘no’ column? I know you’re pretty open-minded, but – any hard limits?”

He’s not sure how to answer this. Realistically, there’s a lot of stuff on his “no” list, but he seriously doubts Amy Santiago needs to be told to avoid bestiality and blood play.

Finally, he clears his throat and says, “No tying me up and leaving the room. No making disparaging comments about Little Jakey. (That’s my nickname for my penis, incase that wasn’t clear.) And, uh, no butt stuff. Unless you ask first. Then maybe, I guess.” Making this list out loud, he’s realizing that there’s very little he wouldn’t let Amy Santiago do to him if she asked nicely.

She nods. “Noted.” And it is. In a literal notebook.

“How about you? What’s in your ‘no’ column?” Now _this_ , he is curious about.

Amy taps her pen against her lip and thinks. “No making fun of my doilies. No orgasm denial. And no coming on my bedspread. I just washed it.”

It’s almost infuriating that he’s _hard_ through all of this. It should _not_ be this hot to be instructed to keep someone’s bedding stain-free. But just the thought that he’s going to come _anywhere_ near Amy – hell, even the sound of her saying the word “coming” – is making his jeans uncomfortably tight. Shit. He really, really likes this girl.

“Okay, so, is that it? Are we good?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager but probably failing.

Amy gives the list another once-over, then nods and snaps the notebook shut. “Yup. Let’s do this.”

The words haven’t even left her mouth completely before Jake’s bounded across the coffee table, closing the gap between their lips and putting his hands everywhere he can get them.

As it turns out, the no-coming-on-the-bedspread rule is even easier to follow when you don’t even make it to the bedroom.

* * *

**iv.**

“Amy, you left your vibrator on my pillow again,” Jake calls to her. She’s out in the kitchen making her evening cup of chamomile.

“Sorry,” she calls back, not sounding terribly sorry.

Jake gingerly lifts the huge, heavy massage wand (God, even her sex toys are grandmotherly-looking) off his pillow and puts it in the top drawer of her nightstand.

Truth be told, it isn’t _his_ pillow – he sleeps over four or five nights a week, tops, but they’re definitely not living together. He just gets a little weirded out when she leaves her instrument of self-pleasure on the pillow where he lays his head most nights, that’s all. That's reasonable, right?

Amy comes in and sets her teacup down on the nightstand, then settles into bed. “Sorry about that,” she says again. “I was using it yesterday and I guess I forgot to put it back in the drawer.”

He gets under the covers and fits his body against hers. “Why do you need that thing, anyway?” he says. “I’m here most nights. And even when I’m not, you know I’m at your service whenever you want me.” He wiggles his eyebrows at her and kisses her shoulder.

She lifts her teacup to her lips and sips thoughtfully. “I guess I just like how _fast_ it is,” she says. “Sometimes I just want a quick orgasm for stress relief, you know?”

He considers this for a moment. “How fast _is_ it?” He’s sizing up his competition.

“I think my record is seventy-four seconds.” Of _course_ Amy would have timed this down to the second.

He takes her cup of tea from her and sets it down on the nightstand, then slithers his whole body under the blanket.

“Jake? What are you doing?” she says, amusement and disbelief mingling in her voice.

“I _know_ I can do better than seventy-four seconds,” he says, voice muffled by the duvet, and pushes Amy’s nightgown up around her waist. He points at the clock on the wall and says, “Count.” And then he dives in.

Slightly over a minute later, he surfaces from between Amy’s trembling legs, and comes up to lie beside her again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “How’d I do?” he says.

Amy, still panting, manages to rasp, “Seventy-one seconds.”

Jake laughs triumphantly and gives himself a self-five. “Yeah! Suck on that, Mr. Hitachi!”

* * *

**v.**

“This is gonna be so great. I’ve been working on my scary-rapist voice,” Jake says. Then, dropping his tone half an octave and affecting a slight Californian drawl: “Get on the floor and take your dress off, bitch!”

Amy giggles. “You’re getting better at that. That workshop we took at the Pleasure Chest really helped.” She puts on one pearl earring, then the other. “Just maybe try to keep it down a little this time. I think we almost gave my landlord a heart attack last week.”

Jake flops onto the bed and watches Amy pull her stockings on. God, he loves how her legs look in those things. It’s really too bad he’s going to have to rip them off of her. “Do you think this weapon is convincing?” he asks, holding up the purple plastic gun.

She runs her finger along the barrel, slowly. Jake wonders if she has any clue how much it still turns him on when she does stuff like that. “It certainly doesn’t look regulation, but it’ll do the trick,” she says, and leans in to kiss his nose. She steps into her purple silk dress and pulls her arms through the sleeves. “Zip me up, babe?”

He stands behind her and takes a long, deep whiff of her: lavender shampoo, vanilla body lotion, jasmine perfume. It’s a heady blend that still makes him a little swoony after all these months. He slides the dress’s zipper up her back until it completes its journey at the nape of her neck.

Turning around to face him, she smiles. “How do I look? Like a woman who’s ready to be ravaged?”

He takes her hand in his and kisses her palm. “Well, you’re not supposed to be _ready_. That’s kind of the whole point.” Another kiss, this one on her knuckles. “But you look gorgeous, babe. As always.”

She blushes a little and strokes his face. “Okay. I think it’s time.”

He nods and tucks the fake gun into the toy holster that’s attached to his belt. Then he picks up the balaclava and gloves from where he left them on the bed. “Love you. Get ready to have your world rocked.” Giving her one last adoring look, he walks out the front door of the apartment and closes it behind him.

_Ten. Nine. Eight…_ He tries to make the countdown as slow as he can, but he can hardly wait to get back in there and see her again. _Seven. Six. Five…_ He pulls the balaclava on over his face and slips the gloves onto his hands. _Four. Three. Two. One._

Even though the door is unlocked, he still throws his full weight against it. That’s part of the game.

She’s standing at the kitchen counter, back to him. He sneaks up behind her, quiet as can be, and pulls the plastic gun from its holster. Pressing the barrel into her back, he simultaneously reaches his other hand around to cover her mouth.

“Get on the floor and take your dress off, bitch,” he growls into her ear, low and quiet, and he can feel her smiling against his hand.


End file.
